Dear Ana: A Novel

Get up.

No.

You have to.

I’m supposed to be dead.

But you’re not. You failed as a daughter, you failed as a sister, and yesterday you failed at death. Now you have to suffer the consequences.

I can’t.

We don’t have a choice.

My lap buzzed loudly again and with a regretful sigh, I shoved my closet door open, letting the harsh sunrise streaming through my open curtains blind my eyes. I stood up and paused, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Waiting for the numbness in my limbs to get replaced with pins and needles. Waiting for the reality that I was still here to hit me in full force. I tried to recall if I slept at all, but I couldn’t. The last six hours of my life simply didn’t exist in my mind.

I lived in the golden age of social media, where men and women, boys and girls, and children and adults all loved to glamorize and profit from this troubled state of mind. They documented their tears and the hours they laid in bed doing nothing in an aesthetically filmed fifteen-second video, with a pop song in the background, and ten different hashtags intentionally chosen to prey against their target audience. It was a fetish. A trend to be mentally disturbed and people were so quick to hop on the train and get their brief moment of relatable content.

They had it all wrong, though. It wasn’t cute when I had to brush my teeth for double the amount of time just to make up for my lack of oral hygiene the night before. It wasn’t quirky when I could barely bring myself to scrub away the grime left over from all the food and bacteria in my mouth before it rotted my gums. It wasn’t special when I could scarcely get myself to take a fucking shower even when it’d been a week since the last one, and my hair was a knotted bird’s nest hidden under naturally hectic curls and a shit ton of coconut scented dry shampoo. And then after I finally managed to drag my body into the tub, I couldn’t get myself back out until eventually, the water would shrink me into the pruned version of a corpse. That was the only part of it I liked. When the cascading water withered me into a raisin and suddenly I felt small and weightless and it was easier to carry myself upwards . . . but that feeling was always fleeting. The same could be said about every other basic human necessity. Everything that was supposed to be simple suddenly turned into a draining and time consuming task.

But of course, no one wanted to broadcast any of that. They only wanted to accept the parts they believed to be charming. The ugly parts needed to stay hidden, not acknowledged. The dirty parts needed to be wiped clean until they were unrecognizable and meaningless.

I turned the tap off and closed the mirror compartment, but hesitated before turning away. I usually avoided looking at my reflection but as much as I hated to admit it, I was curious. Curious what the man at Ana’s grave saw when he looked at me. Curious if he could tell what I was thinking.

I pushed away a stray ringlet––my bangs were growing out and needed a trim. Detached eyes stared back, the bags carved beneath them enunciated with lack of sleep. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t successful yesterday because I still looked like something that belonged six feet under the ground. I could see my years of loneliness slowly starting to transform my features. My pupils mirrored how painfully vacant I was inside, like there was an essential part of my existence missing. My spark being the essential thing. It had been violently destroyed and ripped out of me before getting burned to the crisp right in front of my eyes, and I hadn’t been able to revive it since.

Sometimes I feared this was all I was and all I would ever be, but other times––most times––I honestly couldn’t bring myself to care. I kept staring at her as the minutes ticked on, unable to identify the girl reflecting back at me. Every time she blinked it crucified another piece of my awareness. I continued to look anyway, suddenly desperate to find some flicker of resemblance but there was nothing. What was I like before? Was I happy? Was I full of life? I had to be. I had to have been better than this. There had to be a before this. A before girl. If there was a before girl, then that meant there could be an after girl. This damaged, semi-suicidal coward stranger was just the in-between. She wasn’t me––

I squeezed my eyes shut against the image and fled the bathroom. There was a reason I never looked in the mirror, but at least my curiosity was satisfied now. I didn’t know if he could tell what I was thinking, but I did know that he went to the cemetery to mourn the dead only to be forced upon the gaze of a zombie.

As pitiful as it was that I had to work this early, it was undoubtedly my favorite time during the day. It was early enough that everyone else was still sleeping, which in a way meant that I had the house to myself. Peace and quiet weren’t usually a luxury of mine, so I liked to take full of advantage of it whenever I could. I took my time making my coffee and packing my lunch, before changing into my scrubs.

My schedule was the same every day––I worked as a medical receptionist in the ER department at the Mountain View General Hospital from six to three. Then I had a two-hour break where I would escape my existence with a book, before rushing to Tysons department store where I worked retail from five-thirty to ten. Then I went home and my miserable routine continued, over, and over, and over again.

To say that I didn’t like my jobs was an understatement. I despised them. I always had my heart set on working in healthcare, but I didn’t feel any passion for sitting behind the reception desk. My retail job wasn’t any better, seeing as it triggered every fiber of my antisocial tendencies to the core. I hated talking to people. I hated folding clothes and organizing every section, only to turn back around a minute later to find the shelves completely destroyed again. I hated that every day at least three people would tell me I looked tired––when did that become an acceptable conversation starter? I hated how tedious the work was. I hated how slow time went during my shift, but somehow on the drive home every night I always wished I could go back and start my shift over. Every twenty-four-hour period I lived was a never-ending cycle of not wanting to be in this house, but not wanting to be at work either. Why wasn’t there a third option I could choose from?

I rearranged my cold features into a smile, just like I practiced, and swiped my key card against the door. I waved at the janitor who was mopping the hallway. I asked Gwen about her daughter’s dance recital and cooed as Helen showed me pictures of her grandson taking his first steps.

Nobody ever fucking noticed.

I usually headed to the Starbucks near Tysons before my shift, but I heard about a new café from some coworkers and decided to go check it out. I glanced around Espresso & Chill while I stood in line but thankfully didn’t see anyone I knew.

It didn’t look like your traditional café. There were plants and tapestries made of leaves hanging down the walls. The tables were an ashen wood material, accompanied by amber green plush seats, and the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air around me. At the far end of the café, the wall was covered with white plastic. It seemed like some renovations were being done on the other side, but I couldn’t hear any construction. Instead, there was a steady beat of classical tunes in the background, along with the whir of the coffee machines and the light chatter from customers.

“Hi, what can I get for you today?”

Thump, thump––

Ana recognized the sound of his voice before I did. I turned to look at the front to place my order but my words got lodged in my throat, cutting off my air supply.

It was him.

He instantly recognized me too and his smile slowly faded. I couldn’t decipher the expression on his face. Was he angry? Would he demand I tell him who I was, and why I was at Ana’s grave? Was he going to kick me out and humiliate me in front of all these people?

I could see why Ana chose him––heterochromatic eyes, hairline gap between his two front teeth, ears that pointed out a little more than they should, but it was okay because they somehow still aligned perfectly with his sharp jaw and long neck, and a head of dark and fluffy curls that looked like they’d never met the bristles of a brush in their life, but I knew they would still feel silky and soft between my fingers.

Thump, thump––

But I couldn’t notice those things. I couldn’t notice men. Especially not this man.

“Was that you?” he asked quietly, slightly unsure. Like he couldn’t believe I would have the audacity to show up here after yesterday’s disaster. “At Ana’s grave?”

He looked harmless and didn’t sound aggressive––quite the opposite, actually. But he was still a man, and unlike the day before, we were in a public place. So without responding, I turned away and quickly headed for the door.

“Hey, wait!” he called out to me, just like yesterday. I didn’t want to cause a scene so I didn’t run. It wasn’t like he was going to abandon his line of customers and come after me.

“Hey, wait up,” I heard him say again, but this time it was at a much closer proximity, and then suddenly, he was right there, standing in front of me. My eyes saw him before my feet did, and they continued their brisk pace straight into his body. I stumbled back and he instantly reached out to steady me, but before he could touch me, I involuntarily flinched away from him. Violently.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “Are you okay?”

I could feel his gaze looking me up and down to see if there was anything physically wrong with me, but besides my flushed face, the humiliation searing through my veins wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

I thought . . . for a moment there I actually thought he was going to hit me. In public. Where everyone could see.

Insane.

Not insane, though. The most brutal monsters were the ones you didn’t see coming.

I was still embarrassed. Not just because my reaction was so fucking obvious and there was no way he could’ve missed it, but because I had no power over my body . . . he did. A vital piece of myself had been forever altered, forever tainted, forever controlled by the puppet strings attached to his fingers. The worst part, though? I allowed it to happen. I didn’t ask for it, but I also didn’t try hard enough to stop it either.

Maybe that was why I always avoided my reflection. Maybe it wasn’t because I didn’t recognize that girl, but because I did recognize her as the person to blame for who I’d become. Not Mikhail. Not Ana. Only me.

I finally glanced over to see if he had hopefully disappeared so I would never have to face him again. He hadn’t. That uniquely attractive and slightly nerve-racking man was still standing beside me with a concerned look on his face. I slipped my headphones out and took a second to evaluate the rest of him that was previously disguised by the counter, my brain immediately doing some quick calculations with his approximate volume, mass and density. He was taller than my 5’10 inches tall––which I hated––and his body was built like a spaghetti noodle––somewhere between fettuccine and linguine. My favorite was angel hair, but I was confident I could take him.

Not that he posed a threat.

Yet.

“Can I help you?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Um, no, but can I help you? You seem shaken up.”

“I think it’s pretty normal to get nervous when someone you don’t know is chasing you down the sidewalk,” I said with forced indifference. If I didn’t act like my reaction was weird, then it wouldn’t be weird.

He gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I realize now how that must’ve seemed. You just keep running away from me.”

“Most people would take that as a hint.”

“True,” he said absently, his ornate eyes suddenly moving rapidly across my face with vigorous acuteness. “I’m getting hit with an extreme wave of déjà vu right now. Have we met before?”

Thump, thump––

I swallowed hard and shook my head.

He continued to stare at me without breaking eye contact before finally shrugging it off. “Yeah, you don’t seem like someone I could easily forget. I’m Noah. Noah Davidson.”

Is it possible he might . . .

“Maya Ibrahim,” I replied cautiously.

Nope. Not a single flicker of recognition. The hospital did its job well.

“Maya . . .” he repeated, a shadow of a smile gracing his face. “Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me, Maya Ibrahim? So maybe by the end of the day, I can become someone that you know?”

I hated the way he said my name with that voice filled with curiosity and fascination like I was the most interesting part of his day instead of his worst nightmare. There were two ways this could go––I could politely decline his offer, get back into my car, and never look back. I was blessed to live in a huge city filled with thousands of tasteful coffee shops and libraries where I could pass the time. Espresso & Chill was probably great, but it was worth the sacrifice.

Or . . . I could do something crazy. Different. I could go against every instinct I had and say yes. I could accept this seemingly kind man’s offer and go have a cup of coffee with him. He owed me after ruining my already ruined plans yesterday. He owed me a new routine. And he didn’t seem to know how he knew me, so maybe he wasn’t there the day they begged for her heart. Maybe he wasn’t that close to Ana after all?

Thump, thump––

No, they were close. I could feel it. He might not know he knew me, but he did know me. I was probably imagining it, but her heartbeats sounded more . . . ecstatic. It recognized his proximity. Did he really want to know me, or did his spontaneous coffee invitation have to do with the girl’s heart trapped in my body?

I could never tell him who I was because he would undoubtedly hate me––why would he want to be friends with the girl who survived in place of his Ana? And if I didn’t tell him and he inevitably found out, he would hate me even more because I was a liar––why would he want to be friends with a liar?

So option one then. It was the right thing to do. But why did the right thing make me so mad? Maybe because despite always doing the right thing, nothing positive ever came from it. I was never rewarded for my stellar behavior. The universe still threw shit my way, completely fueled by my obedience and not giving a fuck about how good of a person I was.

“Fine,” I agreed. “But only because I love coffee.”

Fuck you too, universe.